Gemini

by Dorothy Dunnett

  It was a long way from the door to the gate, where escaping men were thrusting past their own captain. The Bishop, nearest the van, had scorned to run when the unrest began but, setting his teeth, had lifted the long, solid weight of his crozier and brandished it threateningly. A pike, dashed through the air, had sent him flying. Next, before they too could run, Adorne and Nicholas had been seized and forced before Purves.

  In fact, Adorne had made no attempt to escape. He had looked up and spoken clearly and simply. ‘I don’t know who they are. We have kept faith. So has the King.’

  Purves had gazed down. Another firebrand, Nicholas had called him. Although unlike his friend Jardine in feature, there was a great similarity. The face, the dogged, sick face, of the fanatic. Purves did not even draw his own sword. He simply said, ‘Kill them,’ and turned, and spurred his horse out of the gate.

  The men who laid hands on Adorne were of the simple kind Applegarth had described: solidly muscled and greedy. Nicholas was a big man, trained to war, and at present possessed, to the point of insanity, with one purpose. They cursed, overthrown at first by his strength, and he almost got to Adorne. But then three or four more fell upon him, with blow upon blow to his body and head, and held him upright as he struggled still, tearing off everything of value he had; but without as yet using their axes. Axes caused damage, and were kept for the last, against valueless flesh.

  They had done the same to Adorne. The collar of honour had gone, and the furred robe and jewelled jacket beneath it, and the Unicorn ring, so like the King’s, but for the small difference: Para Tutum, in legend. The King, for whom the ring’s owner was dying. They threw their victim to the ground when they had what they wanted, slashing his lower limbs first, so that he couldn’t have risen. Lying face down in the dark, in his torn shirt and hose, he must have been only half conscious by then, and perhaps hardly felt the stab over the shoulder-blade that travelled inwards and down, to the heart. Then they rolled him over and opened his skull with one blow.

  He lived for a moment, before the blood rolled down and closed the eyes looking at Nicholas. The look held everything he was trying to say, although he only breathed two words. ‘I wish …’

  The men drew back. Nicholas didn’t see them. He stood in the grasp of his captors and was aware of nothing until he heard a great scream, in his son’s voice. Then he wrenched his head round.

  Calling his name, Jordan was running towards him, his face lowering and white, Simon’s great sword held two-handed, pointing forward. Arrows were falling. Other men were running with weapons. Some were only intent on escape, but some were veering towards him. Crackbene seemed to be wounded, and was struggling to rise from the ground. Nicholas found his voice then: the voice of final authority that had always stopped Jordan, wherever he was. With all the power of his lungs, he delivered his order. ‘Jordan! Turn round and go!’

  But Jordan now was a man, and made his own decisions. He continued to run. He continued to run until the elder Jordan, rearing behind him, slammed him into the ground with the great tumbling mass of his body, and pinned him there, helpless beneath him. Then the rags of Applegarth’s army ran past without pausing, for the ground had started to shake and the distant drumming of hooves had turned into low thunder. At the same moment, the men grasping Nicholas loosed him and ran, their booty clutched in their arms.

  Prospero’s voice said, ‘Is he alive? Oh, dear God.’

  ‘Pray for him,’ Nicholas said, and got up and went to his son.

  The arrows had stopped, but the ground between the walls and the Priory was still dangerous with running men, slashing at anything in their fear and frustration. The torches had mostly burned out, but you could still see, among the brown and red slush, the bodies of the men the archers had killed, and of the two nuns. The Priory door had been closed, against refugees this time, instead of marauders. Jordan, half pulled free from the old man, was gasping, ‘I’m all right. Are you all right? You’re not going? You don’t have to go?’ And then: ‘Is he dead?’

  Nicholas glanced across, and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. I know. Is Monseigneur dead?’ Jordan said. ‘They shot an arrow at me.’

  The old man’s eyes were closed. There was no sign of an arrow, but there was a bloody tear where it had been. Nicholas eased his son from below him, and bent to look at the wound. The old man opened his eyes. ‘I shall survive. Take the youth away. He has been quite feckless enough. Where is your Nordic friend?’

  ‘Over there,’ Nicholas said. Crackbene was standing, now. Of those who had come out, no one had died but Adorne. With a silent gasp of internal anguish, he remembered Kathi.

  The old man said, ‘What is this company that frightened them off?’ They were very close now. Beyond the wall, most of Applegarth’s men had now gone, running and galloping.

  Nicholas said, ‘I don’t know. Friends, I hope. I have to go inside. Can you manage?’

  ‘I’ll help him,’ said Crackbene. ‘Jordan can lend me a hand. Was that Adorne?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘They thought we had cheated them. They probably meant to kill us both anyway.’

  ‘It’s the end of Albany,’ Crackbene said. ‘Whether he knew about it or not; that’s the end of him.’

  IN THE CELLAR, the change in sound was odd enough to cause Kathi to put out the candle and attempt, by opening one shutter, to see beyond the bars into the precinct. The air outside was raw, and she shivered. Rankin, lucky Rankin, had fallen asleep.

  She had been prepared for the reduction in shouting, once the surrender had been accepted. She had been prepared for the ironic cheer, which must have accompanied the appearance of her uncle and Nicholas. She expected a pause, while they were mounted and taken away, and then a period during which the troop collected its weapons and dead and prepared to depart in an orderly manner. Instead, there seemed no order at all, but a hubbub, as if some disaster had happened. There would have been no such reaction had her uncle and Nicholas been killed, which was the other pattern of sounds she had been waiting for. There would have been, her imagination told her, an abashed silence followed by jeering. That hadn’t happened. Then, very soon, she heard the reason for the dismay, which was the sound of a large troop approaching.

  That was when she opened the shutter and saw men running, and realised that the intruders were going. Then someone screamed, and she knew the voice: Jordan’s. A pause; and then from several voices she picked out others. Crackbene. And Nicholas. Nicholas was there. The attackers were leaving, and Nicholas was still there, and perhaps even her uncle. They had been allowed to stay, or had escaped in the panic.

  Margaret said, ‘What is it? Is Great-uncle there? That’s the shutter that squeaks. Rankin will waken.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Kathi defiantly. ‘I think it’s good news. I think everybody should waken.’

  Nicholas was alive. He was outside. When he came inside, she knew the first thing he would do. He would look for and destroy the letter he had left for the Prioress.

  Kathi said, ‘Margaret?’

  ‘No,’ said her eldest child. ‘Whatever it is.’

  ‘It isn’t much,’ Kathi said. ‘I’ve got to go out for five minutes. I’ll be back. Lock the door from the inside, and I’ll close the shutters. It’s for Uncle Nicholas.’

  ‘He isn’t Uncle Nicholas,’ Margaret said patiently. ‘Or Jordan would be our cousin.’

  ‘All right. I agree. Lock the door.’

  ‘I heard you,’ said Margaret. Kathi left.

  IN THE CELLAR, Margaret was bored. She laboured at whistling a tune. When that failed, she opened the squeaky shutter, and Rankin woke. He was entranced to see out of the window, and watch the men running about. There were very few now. He said, ‘I want to fight.’

  ‘You will, when you’re a big boy.’

  ‘I’m big enough now. That bar is broken. Look. I could get through.’

  Margaret inspected it. ‘You couldn’t. Anyway, we’re not to go outside.
It’s dangerous.’

  ‘I can fight. I can punch,’ Rankin said. ‘I could go and help Uncle Nicholas.’

  ‘He isn’t Uncle Nicholas,’ Margaret said.

  ‘He’s my best friend,’ Rankin said. ‘I could get through that hole.’

  The trouble was that he did; and so she had to go after him. It took longer, because she was bigger, and he had already run off laughing. Rankin was always escaping and laughing. She caught up with him just as the big horse came round the corner, and someone bent down and hit at them both. Rankin did no punching at all, although she screamed at him, and then stopped.

  Chapter 52

  Sic is the douchter as the moder beyne.

  WITHIN THE PRIORY, it was not at first clear what was happening; except that a miracle had occurred, and a force was approaching which would put their assailants to flight. They could see, from their windows, the panic among the soldiers outside, and the running men, and the ominous mounds of the dead in the flickering dimness, where torches were dying and fires were guttering within dark, drying pools in the snow. They knew that their two poor Sisters had not survived. Also, someone had seen Lord Cortachy fall. Dame Euphemia feared the worst, although she did not say so, especially as the demoiselle Katelinje had not yet been told. She relied on M. de Fleury to break the news gently. Moving from place to place, comforting her charges, she dwelled, troubled, on the thought of her goddaughter, Efemie.

  HURRYING OVER THE garth, on her way to Dame Euphemia’s room, the demoiselle Katelinje’s chief concern, at the time, was to avoid M. de Fleury. It seemed likely, from the noise outside, that he was still in the grounds, dealing with stragglers and welcoming the incoming party. She was still agitated enough to squeak when someone slammed into her in the dark, hurrying in the opposite direction. It was only one of the company archers from Edinburgh who had held the ramparts so nobly all day. He said, ‘Mistress! Have you heard? It’s our own people, Master John and Master Tobie and everyone, come to relieve us!’ Then he stopped and said, ‘Is Monseigneur all right?’

  ‘Monseigneur?’ she said. She had started to rush on, but halted.

  ‘Monseigneur de St Pol of Kilmirren. He stopped an arrow. They’ve taken him to the infirmary.’ In the uncertain dark, she thought his face changed again. He said, ‘We’re all desperate sorry about your uncle.’

  Then she came back. ‘I haven’t heard. I’m sorry. Will you tell me?’

  He didn’t do it very well, in his distress, and she had to hold herself in check until he finished. Then she thanked him and started away, and turned back. ‘We’ve been in the cellars. I’ve left my children. Would someone bring them out when it’s safe?’ He looked puzzled, agreeing. He probably thought it strange that she didn’t turn to look for her uncle. Her principal feeling was the same as before, only intensified. If this was the end of something good, then it should also mark the end of an evil. She would not think, yet, beyond that.

  The Prioress’s room was empty, but for Julius. It was not surprising: those appointed by God had work before them this day. On Dame Euphemia’s desk there was no sign of a letter. It had several drawers. Julius rose. He had been sitting heavily on one of the coffers. He said slowly, ‘Kathi? Have you heard? I’m most desperately sorry.’ He looked worn, and dirty, and cold, as they all did. For her, the ordeal had been going on since this morning, when her uncle and Nicholas arrived. The last five hours, since Julius and Kilmirren escaped the Home ambush, since Jardine of Applegarth had arrived, had been as bad as the last days in Bruges, when her uncle faced possible death.

  Now he had died, in Scotland, for someone else’s quarrel, and someone else’s King.

  Dismiss it. Don’t dwell on it now. Now she, too, was walking in danger, but she was also surrounded by friends. It was only heart-breaking that the dearest of those was someone she must defeat.

  She said to Julius, ‘I wanted somewhere to come and be quiet. I’m sorry. Would I disturb you?’

  He came and took her hand, and made her sit down in the Prioress’s chair. Even smeared with dirt and full of compassion, the sculptured face kept in its bones all the traits that had persisted since he and Nicholas had been boy and young man together: the charm of the student, the Venetian merchant, the artist in flamboyant escapades. He had thrown off his sling during the siege. He said, ‘Dame Euphemia asked me to meet her here, I don’t know why. Look. Let me get you some wine. She must have a flask.’ His voice was troubled.

  Kathi said, ‘I’ve seen it, I think. Over there.’

  It took him a while to locate it, since it was not where she pointed. It kept his back to her for long enough for her to open a drawer, and immediately find what she sought. It was intact. The outer wrapper, without ties, was addressed to Dame Euphemia in Nicholas’s clear, fluent hand. The inner letter, bearing Mick Crackbene’s name, bore a rough seal. Writing fast, Nicholas had placed it there, out of sight, where the Prioress would find it after he and her uncle had gone. In a moment, when he was able, he would come back to remove it.

  She broke the seal with one hand, still within the half-open drawer, and skimmed the few lines on the page. They were plain, and jotted down without drama, like a singer’s working notes between staves. The unheard song was one she was glad to be spared. Here was the name of the man against whom, year after year, Nicholas had safeguarded his family. The man whom he, in his turn, had protected, for he was of his own blood. Elizabeth de St Pol’s bastard son, who had indeed prospered, and acquired a new name. The name of the man in the room with her now. The name of Julius.

  He was turning back with the wine. Before he brought it to her, the drawer was closed. Her hand shook, taking the cup, and she set it down. She said, entirely truthfully, ‘I think I may be going to be sick. I think I had better go.’

  His face expressed genuine anxiety. She must look as ill as she felt. He said, ‘Of course. I’ll find someone to take you. You should be with the nuns.’

  She stared at him, her mind blank, her eyes sightless. His voice boomed. She was used to the phenomenon: it had happened often before she was married, when she attempted too much and exhausted her strength. Or so Dr Tobie would have it.

  Dr Tobie. Tobie had been full of theories about the invisible traitor. So had Moriz and John. So, latterly, had her uncle, when he had determined, at last, to compel Nicholas to admit what he knew. None of them had made the proper deduction. None of them knew enough about Elizabeth’s son.

  The papers about Elizabeth’s son and her lover, Andrew Liddell, were somewhere in this room. That was why Julius was here. He wasn’t waiting for the Prioress: he had been searching. He was Andrew Liddell’s missing bastard, now legitimised; and the time was coming when he wanted to prove it. He had asked Bishop Prospero to bring him some scrolls from Bologna. He had been interested in records from Paris. He had befriended James Liddell from the beginning. He had chosen Albany’s side. He had been the man behind Jardine of Applegarth, and the secret messages to the King. He had caused the death of her uncle; and of Simon and Henry de St Pol; and nearly of Nicholas. Oh, many times, nearly the death of Nicholas.

  He was holding her. Her mind was quite clear, but something seemed to have happened to her limbs. His clasp, although one-sided, was quite comforting. He must have been an attractive husband to Adelina, even though she only married him to use against Nicholas.

  But he must have known that. That must have been why he married her. That was why Tasse had to die, because she would have recognised who Adelina was. All those other shame-faced suggestions they had tossed about in the Floory Land in Julius’s absence—that he had traced her by using Adorne’s name at Montello, that he had lain in wait for her at Cologne, not the other way round—must be true. Moriz had thought so, based on something Bonne had said, which Gelis had substantiated. But all the embarrassed speculations about Julius had always petered out in rejection and ridicule, for he was the lifelong friend of Nicholas, and had saved Nicholas’s life, over and over.

  And
so he had, when Nicholas was young, and full of well-concealed, brilliant promise, and on the threshold of building the golden kingdom which Julius, and Julius alone, would step in and inherit.

  And Nicholas, all the time, had known, and had said nothing. And Julius had no idea that he knew.

  Julius said, ‘How do you feel? The wine will help, really.’ There was a thread of impatience in his voice. If the papers were here, this might be his last chance to find them.

  The wine, thought Kathi, had better help. She had to scotch all this, quickly. She emptied the cup, banged it down and got up, wavering slightly. She said, ‘I should like to go now.’

  ‘Then let me take you,’ said Nicholas from the doorway. He hardly looked at Julius. He was wearing hose, and someone’s doublet over a torn shirt. He had a sword. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I hear someone told you about Anselm. You don’t want to be here, on your own.’

  ‘She was just going,’ Julius said.

  Plain Sersanders obstinacy, as sometimes it did, conquered the fear and faintness and horror. Kathi picked up her cup, walked to the flask, which was beside Nicholas, and poured and drank off more wine. Then she said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll wait till the Prioress comes.’ Then she sat down, still beside Nicholas.

  Nicholas said, ‘She isn’t coming.’ His eyes were on the desk. There was nothing to see. Julius was still standing beside it.

  Kathi regarded Julius. ‘You said the Prioress was coming.’